Chapter 1

After my CEO—husband went bankrupt, he developed severe anxiety disorder.

I took a part—time hostess position at an auction house to cover the cost of his therapy.

At the event, I caught sight of him in the VIP section. This was the man who was supposed to be getting psychotherapy right now.

Without so much as a blink, he splurged ten million dollars on his firstlove girlfriend sitting beside him.

Once back home, he put on a show and pretended to brag, telling me he had barely managed to snag some discounted beef at the supermarket that day.

He expected me to be moved.

Little did he know, I got a divorce without hesitation and accepted the romantic advances of a billionaire.

Since his bankruptcy was nothing but a sham, I’m going to have my new husband make him go bankrupt for real.

……

I had once been the wife of a highflying tech tycoon, living the luxurious life of a wealthy socialite.

Then my husband, Beckett Voss, told me that his business had collapsed completely.

He was tormented by crippling anxiety attacks and had to spend large sums of money on psychotherapy every week.

Overnight, all the comforts I had grown accustomed to vanished.

I found work as a hostess at a highend downtown auction house. Its hourly wage was far higher than any other parttime job I could find.

Every dollar I earned went toward covering his therapy bills and our pile of overdue household expenses.

I still remembered the day my grandmother gave me the rosegem necklace and matching earrings for my eighteenth birthday.

This set of jewelry had been passed down through the women in her family for generations.

Back then I never imagined that one day I would have to pawn this irreplaceable family heirloom just to keep our household afloat.

Before my shift, I texted Beckett:

“How was your psychotherapy appointment today?”

He replied almost immediately, his message filled with guilt.

“It’s still a mess. I hate that I keep dragging you through all this hardship.”

I typed quickly to soothe him.

“We will get through this one day at a time, together.”

After I sent that message, he never texted me again.

I had deliberately kept this hostess job hidden from Beckett.

Every time an auction was held, the venue filled with rich, arrogant men.

I had witnessed young female staff members being verbally teased, hit on, and even physically harassed by guests.

Beckett had always had fragile selfesteem.

I genuinely feared that if he learned I was working this service job, it would trigger his socalled anxiety disorder.

I did not want to become something that worsened his mental state.

I slipped into my stiff hostess uniform.

Most invitationonly guests had already entered the spacious auction hall.

I arrived only minutes before the event started. Supervisor Greg was already seething with anger.

He walked toward me, his face twisted with contempt.

“Chloe Hale, listen carefully. Your old life as a wealthy wife is long gone. Do not come into my workplace expecting special treatment.”

He jerked his chin toward the frontrow VIP seats.

“Grab your tray and go refill drinks for the bidders up front. Hurry up.”

I nodded, suppressing the shame surging inside me, and picked up the heavy tray.

I set the empty teacups down on the side serving counter and reached for the freshly prepared beverages.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a broad male figure. A sharp, painful flutter jolted through my heart.

By the time I turned fully around, the figure had vanished into the dense crowd.

I told myself I was imagining things.

This was Beckett’s regular weekly psychotherapy time. Logically, there was no way he could be at this auction house.

Even so, cold unease coiled tightly in my chest. I kept moving back and forth, refilling glasses for one guest after another.

Several wealthy men made crude casual remarks while I poured their drinks. One man even tried to grab my wrist when I set down his glass.

I quietly pulled my arm away without creating a scene.

Venue rules required service staff to avoid conflict with paying bidders.

At last, the hall lights dimmed, and the auction officially began.

I retreated to the shadowed corner at the very back of the hall, where hostesses were required to stand and observe the bidding.

The huge overhead LED screen cycled through photographs of every lot up for sale.

Paintings, vintage wristwatches, gemencrusted accessories appeared one after another, followed by milliondollar bids.

The whole hall hummed with tense, exhilarated energy.

Finally, the auctioneer’s amplified booming voice cut through the crowd noise: “Ladies and gentlemen, now we come to our final highlight lot of the evening.”

The screen flashed. Multiple angles of the rosegem necklace together with its matching drop earrings appeared for everyone to see.

It felt as though all the blood in my body had turned to ice inside my veins.

I knew this jewellery set better than the lines on the palm of my own hand.

It had been my late grandmother’s eighteenthbirthday gift to me.

Twelve months earlier, after Beckett said his business had collapsed, I had gone to the pawnshop and handed over this irreplaceable family heirloom for emergency cash to support our household.